Title: BrokenAuthor:jaune_chatFandom: Sherlock (BBC)Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/JohnRating: PG-13Wordcount: 498Spoilers: noneWarnings: slash, wing!ficDisclaimer: Sherlock isn’t mine. A/N: Written for the Five Acts Meme, for the kink: wing!ficSummary: John protected Sherlock with everything he had, even if it was broken.

They were broken. Sherlock had noticed immediately what the psychotic wretch John had frightened away hadn’t. The vast golden-and-gray wings, wrenched from the etherspace from where they were usually hidden, were anything but whole. The smooth arches were jagged, hammered as if by heavy blows, and had never healed right.

“John.”

Sherlock began to come closer, spiraling in as he did, eyes taking in the wounded wings from every angle. He could probably, no, definitely figure out most of what John hadn’t told him before. That he’d fallen, and hit hard. Longer ago than he cared to remember, and it still pained him.

The limp may have been psychosomatic. The trembling in John’s hands went away when he was in danger. But the snapped feathers and twisted bones would never lift him above the ground again.

Sherlock stepped closer, curiosity in every line of his face. It wasn’t too late yet. John could hide his wings again, pull away, pretend it never happened. A thousand deductions on Sherlock’s part would never be able to find where John hid that piece of himself.

But he’d stretched his wings, gritting his teeth against agony, to keep Sherlock safe.

And when Sherlock finally touched him, ran his fingers through the intact feathers, the pain was so sweet John felt himself trembling all over.

He expected Sherlock to talk. Expected questions. “What distance did you fall? Why did you leave? When did you crash? How long have you been here?” Simple questions maybe, for him, but John was an anomaly. Nothing about him was normal.

“Why on Earth, if that’s the correct term, did you show me?” Sherlock demanded.

John hadn’t expected that. Didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t say anything when Sherlock’s hands moved up to the broken arches. It hurt, it always hurt, but not as much as it could have. A hundred grotesque experiments on the kitchen tables had not been wasted. Every touch mapped out the old knitted breaks, avoided the sorest places, made the pain falter and finally fade. Other sensations raced to fill the void, a vibrant rush of pleasure that sent John soaring, his wings flexing involuntarily as Sherlock’s fingers carded through the feathers.

His heart thundered as it hadn’t since the last time he’d flown, and John felt himself gasp as his wings folded Sherlock in a tight embrace. Chest to chest, feathers and flesh forming a wall against the outside world, John answered him.

“I showed you because you wanted to see them.”

Sherlock’s superior smile was tempered by the cushioned crush around him, and John felt his first kiss as softly as a feather. The pain from long-broken bones vanished completely as Sherlock explored John with lips and hands, wringing noises out of him he’d thought he was beyond uttering. Breathy pleas and urgent moans, desperate begging sounds as Sherlock spread his hands like wings, and taught John how to fly together.

That he'd fallen, and hit hard. Longer ago than he cared to remember, and it still pained him.

Huh. I wonder whether the rest of John's issues - the limp, the tremors - are related to the fall. I would think his past in Afghanistan would be genuine, or Mycroft would have caught him out. Still, who can say?

I understand why John expected Sherlock to ask all the obvious questions - a bit like having people ask you what happened when they see that you've broken a bone in a more ordinary sort of way. (It gets old after the first few weeks.)

Mind you, I'd like to know more about the questions John was expecting Sherlock to ask, myself....